


Wanton Flesh

by Svart_Jade



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Extremely Dubious Consent, Forced Masturbation, Forced Orgasm, Imprisonment, M/M, Oral Sex, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 11:30:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21252689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Svart_Jade/pseuds/Svart_Jade
Summary: Overseer Lyall had his orders. Wait on the bridge until his brothers could arrive and direct them to where they were needed to help cleanse the Flooded District of Daud's Heretics. But when he's ambushed by one of the very assassin's he was there to purge, Lyall is given a choice. Submit or die.





	Wanton Flesh

**Author's Note:**

> Be Gay, Break Strictures

Lyall didn’t want to be here. Death hung over the river like a funeral shroud as water lapped at the rotting grave markers of what was once a bustling city district. The Rudshore Financial District, what was once home to merchants and nobles, now plagued by Weepers and Heretics. And he didn’t know which one was worse. The Heretics, he supposed. Lyall doubted that any of the Weepers chose to become stricken by the plague. 

Shifting on his feet, Lyall reached down with a gloved hand to scratch Vigil behind the ears as his faithful wolfhound panted by his side, watching the shadows carefully. Overseer Hume had been very clear, Lyall was to watch the bridge leading into Central Rudshore, to wait for and direct their brothers as they arrived to reinforce them. Brother Markos had mused to him, as they had carefully marched through the deserted streets, that High Overseer Campbell himself had ordered the strike against the Assassin Daud and his followers, before Brother Franklin had reminded them both to curb their wagging tongues and focus on the task at hand. 

The creak of wood turned Lyall’s head, eyes peering through his mask and into the gloom as it trailed around the river bend. A dreary wind brushed at his sleeves and stirred Vigil’s fur, tugging at loose chains and ropes that grated on his nerves. Every noise and shadow nipped at Lyall, bleeding him raw with what he refused to consider fear. Was it shameful to wish that one of his brothers were standing with him, so that he wasn’t so alone? Every nook and cranny could be hiding a blade or one of the wrist bows the assassins seemed to favour. 

But the cut of low lying boats, piercing through the mist, made Lyall’s shoulders ease. Golden masks shining in the low light, bodies huddled shoulder to shoulder. Gesturing for Vigil to stay where she was, Lyall carefully edged closer to the railing, raising a fist to catch the attention of the promised reinforcements. He refused to call out unless he had to, Cosmos only knows what could be listening. His brothers seemed to have the same idea, keeping their silence as the boats slowed to a stop.

Watching where he placed his feet, Lyall balanced down the beams to the water’s edge, opening his mouth to repeat the orders he had been given before pausing, a frown creasing his face from below his mask. There… was something  _ off.  _ Hand coming to rest on the hilt of his blade, Lyall cautiously stepped forward only to stumble back, vomit rising up the back of his throat. The first Overseer’s coat was drenched in blood from where his throat had been neatly slit, the brother behind him tilted sideways with a bolt sticking out from the eyehole of his mask. Dead, they were all… dead. 

His legs barely wanted to hold him as Lyall turned and scrambled up back the beams to where Vigil waited, all too aware at how vulnerable he was in the open. His sword and hound were the last lines of comfort he had, baring one as the other growled lowly by his feet. Growling at shadows that were now flickering towards him. 

Lyall’s blade barely rose in time to meet the falling blow in a clash of steel, Vigil a blur near his feet to lunge at feet that were no longer there. He spun on instinct, blade clashing with the Whaler behind him, stumbling back as a boot connected with his gut. They were everywhere and nowhere, disappearing in clouds of ash around him as Lyall tried desperately to keep their blades away from his flesh. 

But a single misstep was all it took, one foot stepping back onto rotted wood, unable to bear his weight. Lyall didn’t even have time to scream before the plank gave way, sending him falling down onto the beams below. The blow knocked the breath from him lungs and the blade from his hands, the weapon spinning down to disappear with a splash into the hungry waters below. 

Terror clawed at his ribs, screaming for him to get up before Death found him but it was already here, the assassin appearing near his prone body with nary a whisper. The blade was cold as it fell to rest against his neck, so close to the skin Lyall feared to breathe yet it split the skin. But Vigil, his beloved Vigil, knew neither fear nor hesitation as she leapt from the bridge to defend her fallen master. Lyall barely had time to react as she lunged, the assassin’s wristbow turning to meet her. 

_ “Fuirich!” _

Lyall’s voice cracked through the air, stilling both hound and hunter as they turned as one to look at him with what he could only guess was twin looks of confusion. “ _ Fuirich.  _ Wait, please. Don’t… don’t hurt her. She won’t attack.” What did he think he was doing? These were heretics, murderers, and he thought he could just beg for his Vigil’s life and they would listen? But she was  _ his _ . She was one of the few things he loved and he refused to watch her die. 

Vigil seemed to recognise his tone, growling low in her throat as she faced down the assassin. A growl that tapered off into a whimper as she wobbled before slowly collapsing into a furry heap, the weak sunlight glinted dully off the dart sticking out between her ribs.  _ “No.  _ No, no, no, no, no.” Lyall’s voice shattered as he stared at his pup, struggling to push the Whaler away in a desperate attempt to reach her body.

“Sleep dart. She’ll live.”

The rasp jolted Lyall out of his free-fall, staring up at the unmoving mask in desperate hope. Some part of him curled in curiosity because they were men, of course they talked but why did he think that they didn’t? But the rest of him was clutching to those words like they were a rope dragging him to freedom, a promise that the only friend he’s had since he could remember wasn’t dead by his side. The sheer relief made him woozy, head spinning as his heart slowed from it’s frantic pace. Even the Whaler seemed to be spinning and no wait, that wasn’t right. Lyall’s brow creased, eyes slipping down to spot the dart sticking out of his arm before his head tumbled back and he knew no more. 

~  ~ ~ ~ ~

Lyall’s eyes felt like they had been glued shut, head groggy as he tried to claw his way back to consciousness. He could feel water seeping through his trousers, cold metal pressed against his slumped back as the smell of rotting wood filled his nose. It wasn’t the most pleasant of places that he had woken up but at least he  _ was  _ waking up. Groaning softly, Lyall pushed himself up to his feet, studying wherever he had been dropped. 

The walls were welded metal, water pooling around his boots from a small opening in the middle of the empty tank. The edges were higher than what he could have reached, even if he tried jumping and Cosmos only knew what could be waiting for him up there. There were a few bricks scattered around near his feet, makeshift weapons Lyall could maybe use if there was a chance. A chance that might have to be taken soon, given the sound of footsteps approaching his cell.    
  
The mask of an assassin peered into Lyall’s cell with what could only be described as an air of disinterest, taking in his damp and probably pitiful form. “You’re awake. I shall inform Master Daud. He has… questions for you.” 

“ _ Wait! _ ” 

Lyall wasn’t sure why he called out, a mix of horror at the thought of facing the  _ Knife of Dunwall,  _ or maybe because the Whaler sounded like the man he had fought on the bridge and he might know what had happened to his pup. But either way, his voice called back the Whaler before the man had fully turned way. “Vigil, my wolfhound… do you know if she’s alright?”

That… didn’t seem to be what the Whaler had expected from him but at this point, Lyall would take curiosity over apathy. The Whaler seemed to consider him before he nodded slightly, crouching on the edge of the cell to watch him through those glinting glass sockets. “Your hound’s alive.”

The relief made Lyall shudder, slumping back against the wall of the tank as he just tried to breathe. The Assassin on the bridge had told him that she was sleeping but reassurance that Vigil was alive what nothing sure of bliss. But that just left the question of, “What are you planning on doing to her?” 

Of course the rumble of reply was nowhere near as soothing, though Lyall somehow doubted that the Whaler cared. “You should be more concerned on what we plan to do with you.” The sudden push to their feet made Lyall flinch, all too aware of how vulnerable he was as they paced around the rim of his prison, malice clear through their mask. “Tell me this. What Stricture have you broken,  _ Overseer?  _ What corruption lays festering behind that mask of piety you so desperately cling to?”

The instant desire to deny. To claim the purity that was demanded of a Brother of the Abbey of the Everyman and state innocence. But the truth came tumbling off his tongue without will like rotten fruit, sour to taste and bitter to confess. “Wanton Flesh. I just- My Overseer Brothers. When they would change in front of me or grip me too tightly while we sparred…” He wanted. He wanted them to drag him into a shadowed nook and kiss him senseless. For them to slip a hand beneath his clothes and make him whine. 

Lyall's breath stuttered as the Whaler disappeared from where he had been pacing on the rim of his prison, stumbling back as they appeared in a whirl of ash in front of him. A hand shot out before Lyall could go very far, curling around his throat to hold him in place as the other hand tugged at the strap of his mask. The metal clattered as it was thrown to the side, the hand returning to grip Lyall’s chin and tilt his head this way and that before speaking. "Hmm, not too bad to look at, are you? Are you from Morley or Tyvia?" 

It was a question Lyall had heard before, with the blaze of his hair and freckles dotting his cheeks. Signs that would have sung Morley if it wasn't for the slightness of his body and the pale grey of his eyes, like a sky full of snow. It had always confused his superiors, not knowing where to put his city of origin. "Fraeport. Morley. My father was the one from Tyvia." But why did the Whaler want to know unless he was planning on selling Lyall to the Golden Cat. But what use would he be there, and his confession?

The assassin made a soft noise at getting his way, fingers slowly curling, releasing then curling again around Lyall's neck as they considered Lyall's stumbled words. "I was going to kill you. Leave you here to rot of hunger like your  _ brothers  _ have done to so many of mine. But now, I’m going to make you an offer instead. I can fetch Master Daud and let him deal with you. Or, you can  _ give in _ . Much more fun to corrupt until you beg for it." The assassin's body crowded him closer against the wall as he spoke, until all Lyall could see his bloodless face in the glass sockets of the whaler's mask. 

And he didn't want to die. 

Cosmos help him, Lyall didn't want to die. He didn't want to die at the hands of an Outsider worshipping heretic and he didn't want to die of starvation, alone and forgotten in this plague ridden hole. Tears glistened between his lashes as his eyes fluttered closed, chest aching as he forced the words out past the lump in his throat. "You. I want you."

Lyall could almost imagine the look in their eyes as they crooned to him through that horrid mask, hand leaving his chin to brush against his cheek before tangling in his hair, forcing his body down until his knees were pressed against the wet metal. "There we go. Don't worry, I'll take such good care of you." Bile rose in his throat as the whaler nodded silently to his belt, an unspoken order for Lyall to get to work and earn his life if he wanted to keep it. His fingers were clumsy as they lifted to the leather, struggled with the buckle until it popped free, loosening their trousers. His hands didn't even feel attached as they tugged the fabric down, eyes widening slightly as the other man's length slipped free of it's confines. 

It was... bigger than he thought it would be. He really only had his own cock to compare it to, and this was both darker and larger, wiry curls clouding around the base. The head was already flushed, a thick vein running along the bottom as the Whaler sighed softly above him, tugging him closer by his curls. "Never had a man's cock before? It's okay, remember to mind your teeth unless you want to lose them."

Shuffling slightly, Lyall tucked away the part of him that wanted to scream itself bloody and leant forward, lapping slightly at the slit. It was heavy against his tongue, bitter and salty but that might be the tears silently tracking down his cheeks. Pain that splintered and dug deeper as the Whaler made a gentle hushing noise, slowly fucking into Lyall's mouth oh so carefully like this wasn't all his fault that Lyall was hurting. And wanting. The realisation made him want to hurl, the knowledge that some corrupted part of him liked what was being forced upon him. But the cruel wanton thing that kneaded and purred deep in his mind laughed that he wasn’t being forced, he had been given a choice and he chose this, to be put on his knees and used like a whore. And hadn’t he had dreams of this? Of being caught and used while on patrol?

He could feel his lips stretch around the thickness and whined, curling at the unknown as the Whaler's thighs spread further apart to give Lyall more room to tend to his length. His nails dug into the meat of his palms, fighting the urge to push the other man away as the cock slid deeper into his mouth, brushing against the back of his throat. Spit dribbled down his chin as the pace slowly began to pick up, the whaler groaning and cursing above him as he fucked into Lyall's mouth. "Outsider's blood, you look so fucking pretty like this. Should have put you on your knees hours ago."

Lyall slowly lost himself in the motions, tongue laying flat as flesh slid over it again and again. Praise and curses falling over him like waves, the water dragging him along as he floated. His knees ached against the metal, a faint heat between his thighs that pulsed with each thrust. A heat that Lyall would have shamefully ignored if the Whaler hadn’t pulled away slightly, the tip of his cock now dragging against his lips as the mask gazed down at his flushed face. “Touch yourself. Through your trousers.” 

His fingers ached as Lyall forced them to uncurl, cheeks burning with shame as he took himself in hand through the layers of cloth. Despite how much his mind screamed that he didn’t want this, his body bloomed at the touch, length growing hard under the gentle strokes. The Whaler cursed as he watched, taking just another moment to admire the view before sheathing himself back inside Lyall’s warm wet mouth. 

Their bodies fell into a rhythm, each of Lyall’s strokes matching the assassin’s thrusts. Heat slowly coiled in the pit of his belly, a sparking fire of need that rose and rose, boiling his blood and scorching his lungs. All consuming that he didn’t even realise how close the Whaler was to the edge until he was dragging Lyall’s face forward until his nose brushing the nest of curls, emptying himself down Lyall’s throat with a cry. And it was that ruthless chase of his own pleasure that sent Lyall up in flames, hips rocking up into his palm as he spilled himself inside his trousers.

His muscles were jelly, legs stiff and cramping from kneeling on the metal for so long as the Whaler pulled out of him with a sloppy noise. Lyall could almost feel the self satisfaction rolling off him as he tucked himself away before crouching down to cup Lyall’s cheek, thumb stroking gently along the bone. “You almost made me believe you were a professional there, sweetheart.  _ Almost _ . Don't worry though, you'll have plenty of time to improve.”

Ashes filled the air as the Whaler’s words sunk in, the assassin disappearing from view as Lyall hunched forward with a sickened moan, shame and guilt clawing at his guts. “No, no, you said-” But there was no answer, just the slow drip of water down the walls of his prison.   
  



End file.
